


Dancing around touch

by Kathee_HDS



Series: GO Drabbles [3]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Denial, Other, Pining, Touch-Starved, Touching, touching is explosive in the literal sense
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-17
Updated: 2019-07-17
Packaged: 2020-06-30 02:38:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19843840
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kathee_HDS/pseuds/Kathee_HDS
Summary: Touches between a Demon and an Angel happen only in battleuntil they don't





	Dancing around touch

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! This has been sitting on my desktop for a while now, I hope you like it!

In the beginning they would fight eachother with their hands bare. Hands balled into fists, pulling eachother's hair and twisting their limbs to incapacitation. Every hit that landed would give them flashes of their first meeting, of companionship and protection, of watching over humanity together. Of standing under the rain, covering eachother with their wings, and quietly talking about the Garden and Humanity. About angelic responsibility and hellish orders. But then they were ordered to fight the emissary of the other side on earth. They were pit against eachother, and fight they did. Each hit would ripple earthquakes in all directions, making the field part of the brawl.

But in the beginning there weren't as many humans. As centuries went by, they seeked isolated places where they could fight to discorporation without collateral casualties. Still, when one of their bodies dropped dead, the scorched soil would stop producing vegetation for decades.

They tempted and inspired humanity for ages until the inevitable times where they'd come across eachother, bringing on the next round of a fight with no clear winner, at the end of which both the loser, the earth, and those who lived in the vicinty, suffered greatly.

They fought on top of mountains, where crashing against eachother would cause avalanches that covered small villages, and on one occasion, a volcano engulfed a whole city.

Each of their fights brought suffering to their protegées -or temptées-, and the death toll multiplied as the population grew.

In a dangerous dance of smiting, they took their fights to deserted islands, but humankind slowly colonized them as well.

They took their fights to the skies, soaring through the atmosphere at great speeds and colliding with eachother in fiery explosions, but the expansive wave of their fights generated tsunamis that drowned thousands.

That was when they tacitly decided to fight the human way, with swords and shields, armour and all. But still the moment either of them discorporated, the earth would rot underneath all around, spoiling crops and poisoning cattle.

So they came to an agreement (not the Agreement) where they'd stop discorporating eachother and just stay away. Crowley called it a non-lethal interference treaty, and for a hundred years no calamity befelled humanity that wasn't brought by their own actions.

The non-aggression pact evolved, meetings that used to end in battles were now settled peacefully, drastically reducing the demand for new corporations, which in turn made their bosses happy, for they assumed the other side was regularly losing the squabbles. Their meetings evolved as well, from fights to verbal sparring, that were rapidly relocated from desert fields to popular inns where they would inconspicuously meet.

Soon, their meetings expanded to include commentary on humanity's achievements, and banter on who had greater influence over what. And one day, after several attempts from Crowley's part, the Arrangement was formed. They shook on it, touching eachother for the first time in millenia. Their hands heated up and set fire to the table, and the ground shook under their feet. Long after they'd let go, their beings still tingled, their palms tinged with eachother's essence. After that, they carefully avoided direct touch.

But Crowley craved for that feeling, the lingering aftertaste of long lost Heaven.

And Aziraphale yearned for that touch of demonic presence, warm and inviting as opposed to Heaven's coldness. The proximity between two enemies too far removed from their allies, the kinship of touch shared by hereditary enemies that had settled into a sort of camaraderie.

So they kept stealing accidental touches that spoke of something else, unreachable. Of freedom from their bosses, not that they'd ever acknowledge wanting it.

Over the centuries, they perfected a way to collide with completely reasonable explanations.

Crowley fell from a horse, and Aziraphale was there to catch him. He would then politely help him back on his feet. Maybe he helped the demon for a little longer than what was necessary, and maybe Crowley feigned a twisted ankle so he'd be offered an arm to hold on to, but all was done with layers upon layers of denial between.

Some times the angel couldn't reach a high ledge, and Crowley would crowd his personal space to grab it for him. Maybe Aziraphale could've miracled the book closer, but no words were exchanged and nothing was acknowledged.

The silent dance of stolen proximity stretched through time, their yearning increasing, their craving multiplying.

And throughout it all, life went on as it was its wont, historical events coming and going, until a fateful night amidst the blitz.

  
Those were times when the bombs would fall right and left, and so no human registered the earthquake as such. For those living in london city, it was just another regular night of fearing for their lives and their futures.

For Crowley, it was a bolt of reassertation, the confirmation that time wouldn't stale the electricity that crackled between them.

For Aziraphale, it was a jolt of recognition. The revelation that nothing felt quite as home as the energy that infused their every interaction.

For the universe, it was the gentle caress of gloveless fingertips as a briefcase exchanged hands.  
  


The frequency of the meetings increased, as did the small touches. Focusing on willing the resulting energy away, Crowley redirected the shockwaves from their touches to the electric system. Casual touches lost most of the danger for third parties, and became a nuisance only to the powergrid and its users, which Crowley would then use to pass by as demonic feats contributing to Wrath, and be commended for it. But that was all it was, accidental touches, not so accidental but easy to explain away with a wave of a hand and a practised lie.

Until the night where a thermos filled to the brim with holy water changed hands. Until Crowley's fingers clasped around a hand holding a thermos, and an angelic hand was laid on them. That was the night all the lights in Europe fickled out for no apparent reason, and the night a touch gave hope, followed by rejection. The night a demon went too fast, and the night an angel wasn't fast enough.  
  


And so stolen touches came to a halt, for over half a century. There was no contact, even if there was companionship. There was drunkenly leaning towards eachother, but from different chairs, too far away, yet close enough to reach, should one of them catch up on speed.

And then, the day after the delivery of the antichrist arrived.

It was far too soon, even if they knew that the Great Plan involved a world that would last six thousand years and they were rapidly approaching that mark.

An expansion to the Arrangement was made, and the agreement was shook upon. Miles of forest reclaimed three cities, one of which wasn't even abandoned yet. The residents were befuddled, but not as much as the Universe by this new Arrangement.

Assuming their new positions, Nanny Ashtoreth and Brother Francis wore gloves at all times. He would help her out of young Warlock's lake boat, and she'd cover him with her parasol, giving a turn around the gardens while Warlock chased butterflies and asked questions. It might have been scandalous had they been in the 1800’s, but in modern day their interactions looked nothing but professional and polite, and they both clung to that. They wooed eachother from their stance of plausible deniability, fooling themselves, more than anyone else. After all, the angel thought, demons can’t love. After all, the demon thought, he was too fast for the angel. And so their dance continued.

Out of their positions, Crowley kept his hands deep in his pockets at all times, craving to run his fingers through those golden curls, and Aziraphale entwined his fingers behind his back, knuckles white from yearning to remove those sunglasses and caress those cheeks.

They would sit in separate benches nearby, close enough for conversation, far enough to dissuade contact. 

But as Warlock's eleventh birthday encroached on them, the distances they kept were progressively forgotten. None dared to breach the red line set that night in 1967, but both were slowly giving in to their yearning, closing the distance, increasing their craving.

Aziraphale was getting ready before the show, while Crowley oversaw the preparations. He was scouting for the hellhound when his gaze found Aziraphale in front of the mirror, staring from the pencil to his own reflection, and back.

"Give over, I can't see you ruin your face like that" he said. "I can't understand how you can perfectly apply nail polish but then struggle with things like this or lip gloss, Angel" "Well each of us is more practised in on different things, my dear. Now, will you pencil the mustache for me?" Mimicking Aziraphale, he drew the mustache, and asked him to do a turn. Maybe he stood a bit longer than necessary appraising the angel's magician look, his gaze lingering when he was sure he wasn't seen, but in the end he declared the Magician Fell ready, and they marched towards the party.

Torture. If Crowley had to describe what was going on in this birthday party, torture would be his first choice. In fact, even torture was too generous a term. The effects on the public were akin to those of eternal damnation. The magic show was so bad, and it pissed both adults and children so much, Crowley was sure he would get a commendation for this. He could feel the frustration boiling across the kids, which would in turn mean a bad time for all adults involved.

And yet the smile on Aziraphale's face made all his musings moot, and he felt his lips curve on their own accord. Sure, sometimes his smile turned to a pained grin when the angel made exaggerated faces of wonder, when the second hand embarrassment became so powerful he scouted the horizon, wishing for the hellhound and Armageddon to come before schedule. But he wouldn’t change his angel for the world.

The hour approached, the magic tricks becoming so ludicrous he was tempted to lend a helping hand and miracle some proper magic to help out, but he couldn't shake the feeling that something was very Wrong. Even Wronger than Aziraphale's magic tricks.

The clock struck 3pm and there was no sign of the hound. A food fight started at 2 minutes past 3, and they both slithered away from the party, one of them covered in cake and the other anxiously jittering.

  


**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for making it til the end! I've had this plot bunny for a while and can't figure out how to continue, if you have any ideas/suggestions, hit me up! If not, it'll be just this one-shot, that I hope you enjoyed :3
> 
> You know what to do, do it with style!


End file.
